Swordpoint by Ellen Kushner Read Free Book Online

to know what was going on.
    Michael rose to his feet, fishing for a coin to fling at the driver so they could both be on their ways. But the occupant of the carriage, too impatient to wait for an answer, chose that moment to step out and investigate.
    Michael bowed low, out of politeness and a hopeless desire to hide his face. It was his mother's old friend, Lord Horn, who had kept New Year's with them in the country almost ten years ago, when he was only IS. Heedless of his driver's sputters of explanation, Horn snapped, 'Who's that?'
    Over the increasing noise of the barking dog and the men's voices on the other side of the wall, Michael said as clearly as he could,
    'I'm Michael Godwin. I was walking home, and I fell in the street.' He swayed slightly. 'Might I - '
    'Get in,' Horn ordered. On shaking legs he hastened to obey. 'I'll take you to my house,' said Horn, slamming shut the door, 'it's closer. John - drive on!'
    The inside of Lord Horn's carriage was dark and close. For a while their breaths still steamed white. Michael watched his own with weird detachment as it emerged in rapid little puffs from his mouth, like a child's drawing of smoke coming out of a chimney.
    As the chill left him, for some reason he started to shake.
    'Not the night to pick for walking home,' Horn said. He handed Michael a little flask of brandy from a pocket in the wall. The exercise of opening and drinking from it steadied him a little.
    The carriage jogged regularly over the cobbled streets; it had good springs, and the horses were good. Michael's eyes grew accustomed to the dark, but still all he could see of the man sitting next to him was a pale profile against the window. He remembered Horn when he'd visited Amberleigh, a handsome blonde with lazy blue eyes and pale hands. And there was his adolescent's envy of a green coat of crushed velvet with gold braid.....
    'I hope your mother is well,' said Lord Horn. 'I was sorry to miss her on her visit to the city.'
    'Very well,' said Michael. 'Thank you.' He had stopped shaking. The carriage turned into a drive, and pulled up before a shallow flight of steps. Horn helped him out of the carriage and
    into the house. He had no chance to glimpse the notorious winter gardens in the back.
    A fire was already lit in the library. Michael sat in a heavy upholstered chair, while his host rang for hot drink. The firelight brightened Michael's russet hair to polished copper. His eyes were large, his skin still pale with shock. Lord Horn sat down and pulled a low table up between them. He sat with his back to the fire.
    Horn's features were in shadow, but Michael could discern a high-bridged nose, wide-set eyes under a broad brow. Hair fair and light as swansdown made an aureole about Horn's head.
    An ornate clock over the mantel ticked the seconds loudly, as though proud of its place. If you did not immediately notice it for its gilded curves and figurines, you could not miss the noise it made. Michael wondered if it would be appropriate to comment on it.
    'You've taken your family's seat in Council, haven't you?' Lord Horn asked.
    'Yes.' To avert the next question Michael explained, 'I'm not often there. It's tiresome. I only go when there's some question directly bearing on Amberleigh.'
    To his relief, the older man smiled. 'I always felt the same. Bore. All those gentlemen, and not one pack of cards amongst 'em.' Michael grinned. 'You have other things to do with your time, I think.'
    The young man stiffened at the insinuation. 'Someone's been telling you tales.'
    'Not at all.' Horn spread one jewelled hand on the table between them. 'I have eyes.'
    Michael wondered if he should let Horn believe that he'd been reeling-drunk in the street. He'd be a laughingstock if it got round: that sort of behaviour was for green boys. 'I hope', he said with a convincing and heartfelt sniff, 'that I am not getting ill.'
    'So do I,' Horn said smoothly; 'but pallor becomes you. I see you have your mother's fine